


All the way from Virginia? Daaaaamn...

by InkMage



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Gets A Hug, Alexander Hamilton needs a hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, George Washington is a Dad, Historical Inaccuracy, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Not Beta Read, The Reynolds Pamphlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkMage/pseuds/InkMage
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is thoroughly determined to revel in his own self-hatred after the Reynolds Pamphlet brings his life down around his ears. Thankfully for him, a certain General is used to saving Hamilton from himself.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114





	All the way from Virginia? Daaaaamn...

**Author's Note:**

> This is largely inspired by my least favourite song in Hamilton: The Reynolds Pamphlet. Specifically, it's inspired by two things. The look of absolute disappointment and disgust on Christopher Jackson's face when he places his copy of the pamphlet down on Hamilton's desk, and the fact that when I've completely screwed up my life to an immense degree, what I want more than anything else is for someone to hug me and remind me that I'm loved, no matter what. And since the musical and real life left Hamilton with no one to do that for him, I decided that Washingdad was going to put himself back into the narrative.

“I never expected that I would find myself in a situation where I was more frustrated with you than after the duel with Lee. Yet here you are, defying the odds once again.”

Alexander Hamilton’s head snapped up in shock. He had sequestered himself in his office days ago, and yet for the first time in his memory, he had nothing to work on. No letters to write, no law research to peruse, no bills to prepare for Congress. And still he had nowhere else to go. New York was still gossiping about the Reynolds Pamphlet, Angelica was out for his blood, Eliza turned him away any time he tried to talk to her, and what few friends he still had wanted nothing to do with him for fear of political or social repercussions. Honestly, Alexander had anticipated being left alone in his office for days more, if not weeks. So hearing the voice of his former commander and former President was completely unexpected.

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton said softly, rising to greet his former employer. He did not offer a smile to Washington. Nor did Washington offer one to Hamilton, despite this being their first reunion in quite some time. This was hardly an occasion for joy.

“Your wife let me up to your office,” Washington explained, his voice stern and somewhat cold. “I assume she is, in fact, still your wife?”

“Only by the grace of God,” Hamilton admitted, gesturing for Washington to take a seat. The former General was clearly in his twilight years now, and while he still cut an imposing figure, it was becoming clear that time was slowly encroaching on his health. Hamilton felt a brief pang in his chest for a whole new reason. The idea of someone as powerful as Washington growing old was somewhat uncomfortable to him, despite its inevitability.

The General took a seat across from Hamilton, fixing him with a stare that made the younger man want to squirm in discomfort. Then he asked the question that had persistently lingered in Hamilton’s own brain for years—“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Hamilton admitted, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I have plenty of excuses: I was stressed, I was sleep deprived, I was lonely, I just wasn’t thinking. But I have no actual explanation. Not that there ever could be one. Perhaps my actions would have been redeemable if I had stopped at just the once—though, no. I would have still betrayed my wife. And yet, despite my self-loathing and guilt, I kept returning to the Reynolds house. Even when I tried to separate myself, Maria would hunt me down to beg for me to return to her, claiming that her husband would beat her cruelly if she was unable to keep producing the extortion money. And each time, I acquiesced, and tarnished my soul all the further.”

Washington nodded, the slightest hint of approval in his features in response to Hamilton’s refusal to justify his actions. “And the pamphlet?” he inquired.

“Stupidity,” Hamilton answered with a harsh bark of self-loathing laughter. “Jefferson, Madison and Burr approached me under the assumption that I had embezzled funds from the Treasury. When I was able to prove my innocence in the matter by producing Reynold’s letter and my own bank records, Jefferson and Madison agreed to let the matter go. But Burr—Burr indicated that he would gladly use the matter against me the next time we face off in an election.” Hamilton paused, trying to repress the trembling in his body from the emotional strain of reliving his most despised memories. He couldn’t even look at Washington’s face anymore; instead focusing on his own hands. His hands, that he had always been so proud of. His hands, that had wielded countless pens in innumerable self-serving campaigns. His hands, that had become his own destruction.

“My reputation as a trustworthy Treasurer and politician is the only thing I have—had—left,” Hamilton continued, his voice hoarse. “I had already proven myself a poor father and a worse husband. What few friends I have made over the years have become more and more distant, so clearly I have no credit to my name there. I am an immigrant bastard with no family that I can be proud of. The only thing I had left was the work I have done to build our country. And Burr was threatening to take that away as well; to besmirch my reputation by painting me as a criminal.

“I wrote the Reynolds Pamphlet in order to defend myself, to explain the truth of the matter.” Hamilton could barely register Washington’s cool gaze still upon him, his mind instead racked with pain and guilt. “I had intended for it to be shared among a few members of the Federalists; a simple way to explain my position and defend my character, in the hopes of keeping the matter within the walls of Congress. But someone chose to publish the pamphlet and distribute it to all and sundry. I only wanted to explain myself, your Excellency. To grab at whatever shards I had left of my pretense at being a good man, whether they sliced my hands open or not. I never anticipated the situation getting out of control so fast.”

There was a lengthy pause, in which Hamilton flatly refused to look anywhere but his own hands. He had seen looks of scorn, of hatred, of disappointment on every person who recognized him ever since the pamphlet had circuited. He could not face the same expression on the General’s face, perhaps the only father figure he could lay claim to, though he would never openly admit the connection.

“And the aftermath?” Washington asked. Hamilton took what comfort he could in the fact that Washington’s voice betrayed no hint of hatred or disappointment. Clearly, though, that meant little. While the General on the battlefield had been notorious for his temper, his years as a politician had proven him canny in the art of hiding his true feelings. Hamilton had no doubt of how he truly felt.

“I have not left my house—have not left this office—in quite some time,” Hamilton confessed. “Our housekeeper drops trays of food by the door, occasionally with newspapers—the New York Post, most frequently, for obvious reasons—that reinforce my shame. Angelica came from England to comfort Eliza and express her disdain for me with all the emphasizes that she could summon. My children want nothing to do with me—all except for Phillip. He switches between hating me for hurting his mother, and feeling the need to defend my name against my detractors. For what little my name is worth any more.

“Eliza…Eliza is heartbroken. She has ejected me from our bedroom, leaves whatever room I entered before I chose to banish myself, cries endlessly. Our housekeeper saw fit to inform me that she has burned the letters I wrote to her when we were at war.” Even as Hamilton said those words, he flinched deeply. He had prided himself on those letters, on the stolen moments that he had carved between writing up battle orders and haranguing Congress for supplies to make his paramour feel loved. To have his written works burned in such a manner tore at the very core of Hamilton’s soul. “I do not blame her for it,” he confessed, the pain in his voice becoming more and more evident. “If I were her, I would not have stopped at burning the letters. She should have set fire to every damn scrap of paper in this office, and burned myself along with them…”

A strong hand on his shoulder interrupted the self-hatred spewing out of Hamilton’s mouth. An insistent grasp dragged him to his feet, and Hamilton found himself unable to resist it. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he found himself wrapped in a strong, powerful embrace as the former President of America hugged his former Secretary Treasurer. At first, Hamilton stood stiff in Washington’s arms, refusing to accept even the slightest morsel of comfort. But as Washington started stroking Hamilton’s hair, slow and firm, Hamilton found himself slowly losing control. He used what last strength he had to control the volume of his sobs, determined to hold onto the last remnants of his pride. Only Washington bore witness to the normally vibrant man breaking down. Finally, Hamilton’s tears ran dry. When his breathing finally smoothed, Washington firmly returned Hamilton to his seat, then walked back to the chair where he had been listening. Hamilton allowed his gaze to finally lift, still expecting hatred or derision to be splashed across Washington’s face like paint across an empty wall. Hamilton found many expressions that he could recognize from his years of serving the General—exasperation, frustration, sympathy, sorrow, and underneath it all, and perhaps most precious—the expression reserved for the aids and generals that Washington cared for the most. The look that part of Hamilton wanted to label as ‘love’.

“I—I don’t understand,” Hamilton admitted. “Why did you hug me? Why don’t you hate me? Eliza hates me; _I_ hate me, so why…?”

“Talk less,” Washington advised, his voice wry with amusement. Hamilton obediently fell silent, flinching a little at the mildest of reprimands and the reminder of Burr. Washington thought for a moment, picking his words carefully, then spoke. “I came here today with the fullest intent of expressing my deep, inexpressible disappointment in your conduct regarding both your wife and Miss Reynolds.” Hamilton cringed, his gaze snapping down to his hands once more. Washington refused to let that slide this time, however, snapping out a sharp command of “Eyes UP!” that Hamilton obeyed without the slightest thought.

“However,” Washington continued, making sure that Hamilton kept his eyes on the General, “it is extremely apparent to me that you have spent the time since the pamphlet’s release listening to the exact same statement from everyone else around you, whether out loud or through action. In addition, I suspect that you have been attacking your own character inside your thoughts ever since the first time you slept with the woman?” He waited for Hamilton’s silent nod of confirmation, then pressed onward. “Then my own admonishments will do little more to help the issue sink in, however much you may respect me.” Hamilton went to speak, but Washington fixed him with a sharp glare that silenced Hamilton in an instant.   
  


“Instead,” Washington pressed on, “I shall express a matter that seems to have been abandoned by everyone else in their quest to lay the well-deserved blame at your feet.” Washington paused, ensuring that Hamilton was still listening, then spoke once more. “You have made a grievous mistake, one that may have damaged both your social standing and your marriage forever. But you are not inherently a bad person. You are still the man that saved countless American lives through your reckless forays into battle and through your emphatic requests for money and aid. You are still the man who served his country faithfully as Secretary Treasurer until President Adams grew jealous of your popularity. You are still the man who wrote your way to America—even if your words have turned against you as of late. In short, Alexander—you are more than just the sum of your mistakes, no matter how much your own mind tells you differently.”

For a while, Hamilton sat in silence, brooding over the General’s words. Washington did nothing to break the moment, instead sitting back and calmly eyeing the windblown office that had become Hamilton’s self-imposed prison. Part of Washington wanted to stand up, to straighten the papers and the books, to bring order to the room and perhaps bring some order to Hamilon’s own mind. But he sat in stillness and silence, letting Hamilton think.

“What now, then?” Hamilton finally asked. “If I am more than my mistakes, then what do I do with my life when my mistakes are all that I have left?”

“Start making up for them,” Washington advised, tone blunt as if Hamilton should have thought of the advise already. “Leave this cell of an office. Talk with your children. Corral Philip and talk him out of blindly defending you. Apologize to Eliza—from a distance, if she will not see you in person—and keep apologizing every day, even after she forgives you. When your family has been put to rights, you can try to bring yourself back into the good graces of the public. But for now, put ambition and legacy aside, and focus on mending what your actions have broken. In doing so, perhaps you may stumble across the means of forgiving yourself.”

Washington slowly rose to his feet to prepare to leave, then paused. “One more thing, Alexander,” he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “While I understand your ambitions and the causes of them, it is none the less important to remember the concept of unconditional love. Your loved ones do not care about whether or not the public views you as a good Secretary Treasurer, or your status as a war hero, or whether history will remember you. Strive for these things, if you truly want to. But remember that there are those in your corner—myself included—who care for you simply because you are Alexander Hamilton. And even in your darkest moments, when your sins heap upon your shoulders, and when your loved ones find themselves longing to pull their hair out in frustration for the chaos you naturally cause, we will none-the-less keep caring for you simply because you are Alexander Hamilton. You do not need to be a success to be worthy of love.”

With that, Washington offered Hamilton a crisp military salute; one that the younger man eagerly returned. As Washington turned and made his way to exit the office, Hamilton reflected on the General and his own legacy. Hamilton knew deep in his own heart that the General’s years were rapidly drawing to a close, and it was doubtless that Washington’s passing would slash across Hamilton’s heart yet again, leaving a scar alongside the ones caused by John Laurens, his mother and the countless other tragedies in Hamilton's life. However, though Hamilton knew that he would soon be forced to once again find a way to say goodbye to a loved one, he would hold this moment deep in his heart: the moment when an old man crossed a country, just to let a sinner and a scoundrel know that he was still loved.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Alexander Hamilton stops Philip from dueling over a statement that was honestly pretty accurate, and everyone ends up living happily ever after. Or not. Depends on how much you want a small change to affect the overall narrative.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the story. This is the first piece of fanfiction that I've been inspired to write, complete and publish in a very long time. I'm currently working on a 'Hamilton Watches Hamilton' story, but I wanted to get this written first. I appreciate any comments and kudoses you choose to give.


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